10 x 100
by rabidsamfan
Summary: Ten drabbles for Charles Parker.  Written for Yuletide in 2008 for beautifulside.


Author: rabidsamfan  
>Title: 10 X 100<br>Disclaimer: Charles Parker, Peter Wimsey and the rest are the creations of Dorothy Sayers, not me.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>The first time that Charles Parker ever saw Lord Peter Wimsey, he admitted much later, he thought the man was an idiot. An interfering, overbred, impossibly privileged idiot, to be sure, but an idiot. This impression was not dispelled by the plaintive way in which the amateur insisted upon being provided with a glass of water in the middle of the investigation, but it did rather suffer when the amateur used the water to find the outline of the trapdoor laid into the elaborate parquet floor. Never let it be said that Scotland Yard had learned nothing since Sherlock Holmes.<p>

* * *

><p>The second occasion when they worked together was as much coincidence as the first, but the third time Parker came to 110 Picadilly deliberately, hoping that Lord Peter might have some insight into the players in the latest mystery, all of them rich and most of them titled, which would otherwise be denied him. He half expected to be thrown out on his ear for impertinence. As it happened he arrived just as icunabulae and the pianoforte had both begun to pall, and Wimsey was glad of the distraction. The dinner afterwards was the first time Parker ever tasted champagne.<p>

* * *

><p>They began with 'Wimsey,' and 'Parker,' but that soon changed. Wimsey's world was full of nicknames, and it didn't take him long to come out with 'Parkerbird', although the formality of class and position held Charles in restraint for weeks after he'd started to think of his irrepressible amateur colleague without the honorific. After the third winter, they were 'Charles' and 'Peter' - a long hard pubcrawl through icy streets in pursuit of a lead did tend to break down the worst of barriers, particularly when it ended in a glorious brawl and a matched pair of black eyes.<p>

* * *

><p>During the War they had both been in uniform, though Charles never thought to compare his bobby's blue with Peter's khaki till the day when Peter wondered aloud why Charles would go a quarter mile around to avoid Liverpool Street. After all, they'd rebuilt since the bombing raid in '17, and the only scars left were the memories of helping to dig out the dead. "There was a baby," he finally admitted, once Peter had poured enough brandy down his throat. "And nothing I could <em>do<em> about it. There was no one to arrest, and no laws broken except God's."

* * *

><p>One of the things they liked about each other was knowing that they didn't think alike. Peter would throw a half a dozen theories into the air while Charles played devil's advocate, and Charles would find his own evidence leading down a different path at times, if it was Peter linking the chain together. They made a good team, even when they were on opposite sides of a case. Charles wondered for a while if that would stay true when it was Peter's brother in the dock, and wondered even more when he found himself wanting to be Peter's brother-in-law.<p>

* * *

><p>Gradually, Charles managed to convince Peter of the value of plodding through the detail work. Peter in turn showed Charles the advantages of taking the occasional leap of faith and filling in the evidence later. But Charles wasn't sure he would have known what to do without the touchstone of his duty, and Peter would have shattered without the freedom to fly. Sometimes they didn't speak for months. And once, horribly, Charles was left to mourn while Peter took advantage of being dead to the world. But when they met again it was always as if they'd never been apart.<p>

* * *

><p>It was Charles' turn to offer sympathy when Peter fell in love, although he would have been happier if Peter's roving eye had fallen on anyone besides a murder suspect that Charles himself had built the case against. It might have been different - <em>would<em> have been different - if Peter had been there from the start, but by the time he'd come home the damage was already done. Harriet Vane was on trial and only a miracle could save her. Charles didn't hold out much hope for a happy ending, and was rather startled when Peter pushed him into his own.

* * *

><p>When Charles Peter Parker came into his father's life, he and Mary were still working out how to balance pride against household expenses, and pride won, which meant no nurse and for the first few weeks no sleep. This lasted until the day that Peter came by and Charles, in desperation, handed off the squalling infant and collapsed beside his sleeping wife on the divan. They woke to find one of Miss Climpson's ladies beguiling the baby and Peter enquiring of his gurgling nephew just how much salary he would offer for a few hours of feminine companionship per day.<p>

* * *

><p>He would have been best man at Peter's wedding were it not that some sop needed to be given to the Duchess of Denver's dented pride; Saint-George took the honor instead. And Charles rather enjoyed being in the audience, where he could sit without being called upon to perform. It gave him a better chance to keep a rein on Peterkin, and to observe while Peter and Harriet traded vows. He felt a bit odd realizing that his place as 'closest of confidants' had been usurped, but that was the way of weddings. Friendship fell into a more comfortable category.<p>

* * *

><p>Charles dropped in to ask a question a month after Bredon was born and found Peter in one of the wingbacked chairs in the library: with his son on his knees, utterly unconscious of any observer, exaggerating every expression as he explained patiently to the baby why it should learn to play cricket as soon as possible. The baby was wide-eyed and attentive, trying to raise its own eyebrows in imitation of the face above it. Then it stuck out its tiny tongue and it was Peter's turn to imitate the gesture.<p>

He looked, thought Charles fondly, like an idiot.


End file.
